


Witchcraft and Applesauce

by blackesparrow



Category: Original Work
Genre: Folk Tales, Folklore, Selkies, Swan Maidens, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackesparrow/pseuds/blackesparrow
Summary: A series of hitherto unconnected short stories! Will not be updated regularly. Mainly about folklore and fantasy





	1. The Witches

**Author's Note:**

> So my friend came up with a writing challenge for our groupchat to do: we had to write something short involving applesauce. I think I nailed it.

I knew I was in trouble, real serious trouble, when the spellbooks came out. Now mind, it was never the best idea to go after a coven of witches alone, but all the other members of the task force were busy and I had the base to myself, so when the alert came in I had no choice. 

I walked slowly into the abandoned warehouse, cautiously peering around corners, gun and flashlight held out in front of me. Every new room I cleared filled me with a sense of relief; maybe this was a false alarm, or the witches had already left. Maybe they were already dead. 

"Cmon," I whispered to myself. "Focus. These witches could be anywhere." 

"Oh, you're perfectly right, dear," a low, taunting voice said from behind me. 

I spun around, trying to aim at the speaker, as my gun was knocked out of my hand by a flying spell. There was the coven, not fifteen feet away, standing with their spellbooks out. 

"Mutare ad cibum!" cried the witch directly in front of me, pointing at me with a long, taloned finger. I could feel myself shrink and shift as my flashlight clattered out of my hand, falling onto the damp concrete floor. One of the other witches chuckled and picked me up in one gnarled hand. 

"Really, Bethesda? Food?" 

"What?" laughed the witch who had changed me, "I was craving applesauce."


	2. Lady of Swans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a tumblr post about selkies and swan maidens! Please enjoy.

Ever since Hari could remember, The Gray Lady had fed the swans. No one knew who she really was, but every day just after dawn, the woman with the white hair and dark skin and eyes like winter rain would come down to the pond and toss seeds and bread in the water. She would smile kindly at Hari, and sometimes give the young boy bread to throw in himself. Hari knew she mustn't be from the village, for all the villagers hated Hari and his family for their strange clothes and odd way of speaking. The Lady liked Hari, but she never spoke to him. Hari sometimes wondered if she could speak at all. 

The swans knew differently. The Gray Lady could speak indeed, but she spoke only to them, in quiet hushed whispers and gentle songs. She told them of the sea, of its vastness and beauty, and of the great creatures which lay in its depths. She spoke of the great whales and their song, the friendly dolphins, the graceful and curious sharks, and as she spoke they saw the love in her eyes. The Lady was beloved by all the birds, but the swans loved her the most, for they saw in her a longing for the water and its embrace that matched their own. They considered her a dear friend, and indeed an honorary swan herself, for her hair was certainly the right color, though her form lacked feathers. 

One day, a young swan (whose name, dear reader, is quite impossible to pronounce without a beak, so we shall simply call her Honk) swam up to the Lady and asked her to come in the water with them. She replied with a sad, quiet smile, "Oh dear one I cannot swim" and when the swans offered to teach her she brushed away one tear. "Dear ones, I cannot swim, for a human has stolen my skin."

“Ah, oh, Lady, what manner of creature would do such a deed?” Cried the swans. 

"Alas, 'twas my husband, nigh twelve years past. He took my sealskin when I swam ashore and, as the story goes, we wed. Now I am trapped here on this rock, as my skin is nowhere to be found." The Lady wept, and as the swans cried with her, Hari came up to her with bowed head and solemn face. "Lady," he whispered, "Lady, we will help you! We can help get your skin back, and return to Mother Sea! You will see." The swans shrieked their assent, and the Lady wiped away her tears and for the first time in twelve years, the selkie laughed.


	3. The Customer Is Always Wrong

“That’ll be $11.95,” I say, looking at the middle aged woman standing at my register. “$11.95 and a grief.” I’ve never liked this part of my job. None of us does, really. Peddling spells to mundanes like their emotions are worth a love potion or an amulet of luck puts a sick taste in our stomachs. The happy days are the worst ones; we cashiers have to watch as the bits of light drain out of their eyes, confusion and unhappiness taking their place. The grief and anger days aren’t so bad; a lot of mundanes leave with a load off their shoulders. 

Still, it doesn’t sit right, especially when one of the regulars comes in. The blank, hungry face of an addict will set a stone in anyone’s gut, especially when you know that Susanne’s wife is only staying with her because of regular love potion doses, or that Reginald is using necromancy incense to keep his teenage daughter ‘alive’. Still, a job is a job, and at least I’m getting paid for spending my afterlife enabling addicts. I have a debt to the Witch just like any of the poor sods who work here, and she was courteous enough to give us at least a little autonomy instead of just snatching our souls. 

The woman in front of me takes a deep breath and nods. She’s been here a few times, enough to know how it works and what she has to do. She signs the receipt quickly, hands shaking a little. “My grandmother died a few weeks ago,” she mumbles, eyes flitting from my name badge to my skeletal hands, never quite looking me in the face. I nod, take the receipt, and tell her “my condolences.” They’re empty words. In a few moments I know she won’t even remember what she’s bartered away. I wish I could break free and tell her to stay away, to never come back, but that would violate my contract and, well, it wouldn’t work anyway. Siobhan tried it a few times before she was locked away. They always come back. 

I hand her the bag with her purchase and she slinks out the door, a weight dropped off her shoulders and a muslin bag of amulets clutched in her arms. I hate my job.


End file.
